Run for your Money, Run for your Luck
by Kuro49
Summary: Van-centric!Fic. Peter/Neal. No one likes the van, maybe Jones on a good day, but Neal, he hates the van. The van does things to him. Or Neal should be more thankful to the Municipal Van for all the things it did and did not allow Peter to do.


The mini fic-dump is mostly due to me moving into my new place and the lack of working internet. Hence, I write and I write until I want to watch my downloaded dramas. But this one is just because I wanted to write sex in the van, that much should be obvious. Keep in mind, I threw the logistics of sex on a chair out the back of the municipal van at the first chance.

XXX

**Run for your Money, Run for your Luck**

XXX

If Peter is Superman, then the sound of women crying is his kryptonite. That they have already established a long time ago. And if Peter is Batman, well then—

"No one looks good in red and green."

He blurts out.

"What?"

"Robin, Peter. Robin."

Neal replies in place of an explanation that Peter can actually understand and turns back to the monitors, blue eyes looking but not really seeing anything beyond the glare of those computer screens.

It might the lack of ventilation or there's something in the air. The van tends to have that effect on people, Peter notes, he also takes note of the line of Neal's back, subtle muscles hidden beneath another fine Italian suit.

He notes the curve of his neck, the stretch of tangible skin and the dark curls before dragging his gaze away.

Peter doesn't expect compromise in the making, it comes nonetheless.

000

They don't remember who makes the first move, but one leans in and the other finally doesn't take a stuttering step back. Perhaps it is Neal, and his stupid charms that have them crowded against the door. Or it could be Peter, and his common sense that has them finally realizing that the two of them have taken a long enough time to get to this.

This dance that leaves them on their tiptoes, wanting but not daring, not even when the music has long since stopped.

(Though it might very well be the van and the lack of room to walk away.)

Neal sucks in a sharp breath and they are much too close. Peter swallows and neither of them closes their eyes. There is no finesse, just anticipation and eager expectation.

And so, it feels like progress when their lips finally meet.

Except it all happens in the van and the romanticism dies quickly. It's the smell, Neal says. They're on the job, Peter insists.

"Focus, Caffrey."

Peter glares at him when he starts playing with the pair of handcuffs Jones left behind.

"I want to try that again."

Neal clicks the lock into place, like a child, loud in the silence of the confined space. And his lips may not be a bright cherry red or swollen with force and pressure but it's never been hard for Neal Caffrey to play his pretty face up as another angle to get what he wants.

And Peter always finds himself looking back at the con man.

"We're on duty."

"After hours then, my place," Neal leans forward, lips a cheeky grin, eyes a brilliant blue when he spins the silver piece around. Something sparkles, like glitter in the sun, and it can't be Neal's eyes because Peter has never been a man for the classics, Neal coos at the agent up close, "oooh, this is exciting."

"I am regretting this already."

And even though he is protesting against him, Peter can't help but smile at Neal's laughter that resonates in the small space that has them knocking knees.

000

Stakeouts in Peter's Taurus have the windows rolled down, the scent of deviled ham curling in the stale New York heat. The engine isn't running, the binoculars are in their laps, while Neal is sitting restless in the passenger's seat with his crisp dress shirt folded up to his elbows.

Stakeouts in the Municipal Van have them in a confined space, that dreaded smell, and surveillance feed set up on all sides. And Neal has never been a sports fan but even the game sounds better than the droning their bugs are picking up right now.

"Peter—"

"Shut up."

"I didn't—"

"Don't continue, you don't need to share, your feelings on the van has long been noted."

Neal's stomach grumbles in reply.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

"Breakfast?"

"You were rushing me."

"Lunch?"

"I had a hunch I wanted to run with. It got lost in the reports I was looking through."

"Go."

"Really?" He perks up instantly.

"You've got five minutes, Caffrey. Go before I change my mind."

"Thank you, Agent Burke."

It isn't because Peter has forgotten about the dirty plates he has seen in Neal's sink that morning, or the sandwich wrappers in his garbage can when they left for the stakeout. It is Neal's anxious fidgeting and the unease that burns slow and sure beneath the conman's skin, like he is itching with both hands tied behind his back.

And Neal can't imagine how much that makes Peter want him.

He makes it back in eight minutes. But his nervous energy is burned out of his system and his mouth is occupied with munching on something, so Peter lets it go. If only because it's Neal and he has his tracker's live feed running on one of the screens all this time.

It might be paranoia, it might be love.

"What do you have there?"

"Not your deviled ham sandwiches, that's for sure."

Neal sits back in his usual chair with the brown bag in his lap, Peter fixes him a look. Somewhere, there is a resigned sigh before Neal fishes inside the paper bag for the fruits of his out-of-the-van run.

"Pretzels."

Peter states with one brow raised and Neal tears off a piece of the bread, offering it to the other, "pretzel?"

Peter shakes his head even with Neal wiggling the bread in front of his face.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Neal pops the piece into his mouth and sucks the pretzel salt from his fingertips with something close to a sly smirk playing over his lips. Peter looks away to drink a gulp of bad coffee.

And there may have been a few times when Neal's pretzel-eating borderlines on obscene (letting out little moans of delight at bread is really just asking for it) where Peter, finally, pulls him down for a sounded kiss that wrecks as much as it leaves Neal sitting stunned for a good minute.

"That was my Devore, Peter."

He complains with his hand smoothing down his suit.

"I only grabbed your tie, Neal."

"…A little warning next time?"

"I'll think about it."

The van hums and the stakeout drags on.

000

"I want out."

"…Out of what?"

"Out of here, this van," Neal replies, frustration and boredom all too evident, "it smells."

Peter doesn't reply with something along the lines of: _duly noted, Neal, now keep listening._ Instead, there is an unsettling silence that falls between them, making Neal sit up stiff and straight in the uncomfortable chair he has always loathed. And it is still Peter's silence that makes him glance over at the other, almost too careful for a Caffrey try.

"Peter?"

"I thought," he looks up to match Neal, gaze for gaze, admittance loud and vulnerable in all the ways Peter has never been, "for a second there, I thought you wanted out of this… thing that we have between us."

Neal blinks, almost owlish, before a slow smile comes flitting. He glances away for a short second, like he is gathering courage and losing the defences he always has up around the FBI agent in Peter.

"If I ever felt that way, which I can tell you I won't, you'll be the first to know."

"Anklet not withstanding."

Peter interrupts, needing to put that piece out there, open for the taking between the two of them.

"I know, Peter." Neal leans over, drags a hand across the back of Peter's neck in reassurance and smiles something they both recognize to be the white washed truth. "Still, I wouldn't admit it in the van of all places, I have more class than that."

He leans in closer, Peter doesn't pull away and they are a fraction apart. Wants and needs and love and lust lying bare in the depths of their eyes as Peter mutters against Neal's parted lips in vain.

"Don't underestimate the Municipal Van, Caffrey."

And then he kisses him soundly.

000

Peter grunts as Neal shifts his hips, lashes fluttering shut. And Peter nearly mistakes it for shyness. But this is Neal Caffrey they are talking about, he has no shame in his roots, not in this at the very least.

He has him in his lap, chair groaning beneath their combined weight.

There is a soft stuttering whine when Peter palms Neal's bare thighs straddling over him but then Neal has a hand over his mouth, muffling the soft gasps and hitches that he can't quite suppress.

"Neal," the man sitting in his lap doesn't respond, blue eyes dark and near gone. "Neal."

Peter drags one hand across Neal's lower back, over the base of his arched vertebrae, warm fingertips branding over the span of feverish skin. He eases Neal's hand away from his mouth with the other, and it is only then that his eyes seem to clear.

Like it is only now that he sees the man he is pressed up against, like the pleasure has finally subsided if only by a little bit.

"Neal, this is a one way transmitter." He explains with something like keen warmth and amusement tangled in his chest. He presses his lips over the jutting collarbones, nothing bruising or claiming, just his parted mouth and a lick of the tongue to lay the kiss against the skin. "They can't hear you."

"Peter…" His voice is hoarse and low now, scratchy as he murmurs his name even when he has been keeping quiet for so long.

Peter lets Neal keep the pace, hips rising as his knees dig into the back of the chair. His arms wrap around Peter's neck, pulling him closer, yet closer still. In return, Peter steadies Neal with a hand on his back, the other between them.

They don't lay down ground rules. But they are breathing (panting) in unison and it isn't frantic, just urgent in a needy sort of way. Peter likes that it is nothing like this with El, Peter loves it that there is a stark difference between the woman he loves and the man he loves just as much.

Neal flutters his eyes shut, head falling forward and into the crook of Peter's neck. He breathes in his scent, his chest heaves and his entire body shakes when he comes.

"Oh god," Neal bites out, loud and careless, "this _van_."

At this point Peter is too far gone (he has no intention of dissecting whether that is good or bad, he only vaguely remembers that it'll be hell to get rid of the smell afterwards.)

The van isn't forgiving this way.

XXX Kuro

Smut is hard to write, have some of whatever that was... /looks away.


End file.
